Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

He woke in the morning so unrefreshed and strengthless that he
sent for the doctor. After sounding him, the fellow pulled a face
as long as your arm, and ordered him to stay in bed and give up
smoking. That was no hardship; there was nothing to get up for,
and when he felt ill, tobacco always lost its savour. He spent
the morning languidly with the sun-blinds down, turning and
re-turning _The Times_, not reading much, the dog Balthasar lying
beside his bed. With his lunch they brought him a telegram,
running thus:

“Your letter received coming down this afternoon will be with you
at four-thirty. Irene.”

Coming down! After all! Then she did exist—and he was not
deserted. Coming down! A glow ran through his limbs; his cheeks
and forehead felt hot. He drank his soup, and pushed the
tray-table away, lying very quiet until they had removed lunch
and left him alone; but every now and then his eyes twinkled.
Coming down! His heart beat fast, and then did not seem to beat
at all. At three o’clock he got up and dressed deliberately,
noiselessly. Holly and Mam’zelle would be in the schoolroom, and
the servants asleep after their dinner, he shouldn’t wonder. He
opened his door cautiously, and went downstairs. In the hall the
dog Balthasar lay solitary, and, followed by him, old Jolyon
passed into his study and out into the burning afternoon. He
meant to go down and meet her in the coppice, but felt at once he
could not manage that in this heat. He sat down instead under the
oak tree by the swing, and the dog Balthasar, who also felt the
heat, lay down beside him. He sat there smiling. What a revel of
bright minutes! What a hum of insects, and cooing of pigeons! It
was the quintessence of a summer day. Lovely! And he was
happy—happy as a sand-boy, whatever that might be. She was
coming; she had not given him up! He had everything in life he
wanted—except a little more breath, and less weight—just here! He
would see her when she emerged from the fernery, come swaying
just a little, a violet-grey figure passing over the daisies and
dandelions and “soldiers” on the lawn—the soldiers with their
flowery crowns. He would not move, but she would come up to him
and say: “Dear Uncle Jolyon, I am sorry!” and sit in the swing
and let him look at her and tell her that he had not been very
well but was all right now; and that dog would lick her hand.
That dog knew his master was fond of her; that dog was a good
dog.

It was quite shady under the tree; the sun could not get at him,
only make the rest of the world bright so that he could see the
Grand Stand at Epsom away out there, very far, and the cows
cropping the clover in the field and swishing at the flies with
their tails. He smelled the scent of limes, and lavender. Ah!
that was why there was such a racket of bees. They were
excited—busy, as his heart was busy and excited. Drowsy, too,
drowsy and drugged on honey and happiness; as his heart was
drugged and drowsy. Summer—summer—they seemed saying; great bees
and little bees, and the flies too!

The stable clock struck four; in half an hour she would be here.
He would have just one tiny nap, because he had had so little
sleep of late; and then he would be fresh for her, fresh for
youth and beauty, coming towards him across the sunlit lawn—lady
in grey! And settling back in his chair he closed his eyes. Some
thistle-down came on what little air there was, and pitched on
his moustache more white than itself. He did not know; but his
breathing stirred it, caught there. A ray of sunlight struck
through and lodged on his boot. A bumble-bee alighted and
strolled on the crown of his Panama hat. And the delicious surge
of slumber reached the brain beneath that hat, and the head
swayed forward and rested on his breast. Summer—summer! So went
the hum.

The stable clock struck the quarter past. The dog Balthasar
stretched and looked up at his master. The thistledown no longer
moved. The dog placed his chin over the sunlit foot. It did not
stir. The dog withdrew his chin quickly, rose, and leaped on old
Jolyon’s lap, looked in his face, whined; then, leaping down, sat
on his haunches, gazing up. And suddenly he uttered a long, long
howl.

But the thistledown was still as death, and the face of his old
master.

Summer—summer—summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass! 1917

IN CHANCERY

Two households both alike in dignity,
From ancient grudge, break into new mutiny.
—_Romeo and Juliet_

TO JESSIE AND JOSEPH CONRAD